Chapter 22

 

“Lady, we’re nearly here.”

The battlements of de Montford Castle came into view over the tops of the trees. The grey stone, once so comforting, now symbolised confinement.

Though blessed with fine weather, Elyssia’s melancholy had only increased, the rays of the summer sun mocking her with each step she drew closer to home.

She smiled at the man riding beside her. She had been fortunate enough to encounter a small party of English soldiers. The second-in-command, a young nobleman by the name of William de Neville, had agreed to escort her home together with four of his men. Too young to be tainted by a lust for power, he reminded her of dear Richard—eager to display his gallantry. He could not fail to notice her swollen belly, but he had said nothing other than to offer her his cloak for the journey, to conceal her shame.

He had spoken of an army mustering near Falkirk to fight Wallace and his supporters, his youthful exuberance yet to be tempered by the harsh realities of war.

Falkirk—might he be there?

The main doors to de Montford Castle looked as they always had. Thick, dark wood soaked up the light and blackened her heart.

The doors opened to reveal Papa and Mamma, flanked either side by two men-at-arms. Tall and muscular, Robert de Montford looked every part the nobleman. Despite his advanced age, his shoulders were broad and strong, toned muscles evident even through his tunic. He flexed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, the sunlight catching the large emerald ring on his left hand. Mamma, her slim figure clothed in a gown of pale blue silk, eyed Elyssia with distaste.

At a word from Papa, his men drew their swords.

William dismounted and, bowing to Papa, introduced himself. Papa’s head inclined towards him in a gesture of acknowledgement before he cast a disapproving eye on his daughter.

“Agatha.” His voice held no emotion.

“Papa!” She dismounted with Alice and moved towards him.

Ignoring her, he turned to her escort.

“My stables are at your disposal, de Neville. Take your horses there, and my men will tend to you.”

De Neville bowed before signalling his men to follow him. Before the dust had settled Papa levelled his gaze on Elyssia, his eyes darkening with rage.

“What are you doing here?”

“We’ve come home.”

Curling his lip into a sneer, he stepped forward too quickly for Elyssia to move away and delivered a blow to her face.

“You dare show your face here? Your husband murdered, his men butchered by animals, yet you survive and return to plague me at my door?”

“We were taken by Highlanders…” Alice pleaded, but Elyssia squeezed her hand in warning.

“Highlanders?” he snarled. “Then I presume you’re no longer chaste.”

Mamma covered her mouth in a gesture of disgust.

“Have you both been whoring yourselves?”

“Alice was left untouched, Mamma.”

“And you, Agatha?”

Elyssia met her mother’s gaze, searching for the compassion she had never received as a child.

Papa snorted. “Pity you couldn’t keep your legs closed, Agatha. Your sister is worthless either way.”

“Papa…”

“Be silent!” Mamma interrupted. “Two respectable husbands we found for you, and you saw fit to discard them both. What possible reason could you have for returning to us sullied? You cannot expect us to find you a third husband. None would have you. You’re worth even less than your half-wit sister now.”

Respectable?” Elyssia cried, squeezing Alice’s hand even though her sister may not have understood the insult. “Edward Morland curried favour with Papa to further himself in the eyes of the king. He was a monster who took pleasure from torturing the men in his power! John de Beauchamp was a bitter old man who only wanted my dowry!”

“How dare you!” Her father took Elyssia by the arm. “You shall come inside where I’ll determine what is to be done with you. I’ll not have my daughter acting like a whore for all to see.”

“Lyssie!” Alice’s plea followed her as Papa dragged her inside, her feet stumbling as she tried to keep pace. His grip tightened as they entered the hall. With an angry word, he dismissed the waiting servants before throwing Elyssia forward. She tripped and fell to the floor—the same floor on which Flora MacLean had been destroyed.

“Would you sully our family name by returning here?” Papa snarled.

“If we’re not welcome here, Papa, I’m sure Richard will take us.”

“You’re not to go near your brother.”

“And what of you, Papa? What have you done to sully our name? The young Scotswoman you destroyed on this very spot, do you know her fate?”

Papa’s lip curled into a sneer. “I care not.”

“She died giving birth to your child!”

“My child!” Papa scoffed. “That little whore was fucked by every man in my employ and likely half the horses in my stables. Who can say whose child she spawned?”

“I’ve seen him, Papa. He has Richard’s eyes.”

“Then perhaps Richard fucked her; in which case, my son has risen in my estimation. And don’t forget, daughter, she was raped on your orders.”

“You gave me no choice. You threatened Alice.”

“You had choices.” Papa took her shoulder, his lean fingers digging into her flesh.

“If I remember right, you made a choice to free that little whore. Disobedient, defiant. If I did not know what a pure woman your mother was, I’d say you were not my daughter. The body of a whore and the heart of a savage. Had I known the disgrace you’d bring on our family, I’d have drowned you at birth.”

He raised his free hand, and the blur of movement preceded an explosion of pain across her face. Ignoring her struggles, Papa rained blow after blow on her body until a shrill scream interrupted him.

“Stop! She’s having a baby!”

His grip slackened, and Elyssia fell to the floor once more. She drew her knees up, closing her eyes against the pain.

Dear Lord. In trying to protect her, Alice had revealed her shameful secret. Elyssia cradled her belly, the instinct to protect the life growing within her matched only by the instinct to protect her sister.

“So, my daughter is a whore,” Papa snarled. “Take them away.”

His footsteps echoed across the chamber, accompanied by Mamma’s lighter tread. Rough hands pulled her to her feet, the world inverted, and darkness overcame her.

* * *

“I want to fight, Iona.”

“I’m sure you do, young master, but you’re too young. Heed Master Tavish’s words.”

Callum scowled at the lass in his bed. He was fond of Iona—she had kept his bed warm for many months—but her unwavering loyalty to Tavish irritated him.

“You should listen to me, not Tavish.”

Iona placed a light kiss on his lips. The touch of her lithe young body against his skin sent a rush of desire through his cock.

“Come here,” he said, his throat hoarse with lust.

“Master Callum, if ye cannot even control yer cock, then what help will ye be to Master Tavish in battle? A soldier must have complete command over himself.”

“But I want to fight, to seek out the de Montfords and tear them apart for what they’ve done to us.”

“Do ye not think it’s time to forget your thirst for vengeance?” Iona took his hand, holding it firmly when he tried to withdraw.

“Nay, little master, listen to me.” Iona’s voice took a firm tone. Her presence in his bed seemed to blur the lines of rank between them. Though barely older than Callum himself, Iona had seen her share of heartache. She had lost her parents to a fever six summers ago and since then had cared for her brother and sisters, uncomplainingly devoting her own childhood to raising them. Yet she had not taken pity on herself. She had done her duty, her young shoulders bearing burdens greater than anything Callum himself had borne.

She moved her hand across his flesh to administer to him once more. He sank back into a languid doze as her skilled little fingers caressed his length.

“You should be kind to those who showed you kindness, Master Callum,” she chided, a smile in her voice as pleasure rose within him. “Ye must understand the true meaning of justice.”

“Of what do you speak?”

“The Englishwoman.”

He sat up, but she pushed him back “No. Listen to me, little master. Who do ye think treated your wounds after Tavish had you whipped?”

“Margaret.”

Iona shook her head. “Tavish forbade all to touch you. The only one who defied him was the Englishwoman. The same woman who treated me when I burned my hand.”

She lifted her hand to reveal an ugly scar on her palm. “Were it not for the Lady Elyssia, I might have lost the use of my hand. She tended to me and undertook my duties while I healed.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Did you not also know that Master Tavish had met her two summers before she came here?”

Tavish? He’d already known the woman?

“I hear from Duncan she saved Master Tavish’s life,” Iona said. “She risked her life to free him when he was a prisoner of the English. She never spoke of it while she was kept captive here. Why do ye think that was?”

“I know not.”

“Shall I tell ye what I think? I think she wished to atone for Mistress Flora, so she endured everything without a fight. I know what happened with Angus, but I cannot believe she’d whore herself in such a manner unless she had no choice. The one thing that’s driven her has been her need to protect her sister, whom all here taunted and called half-wit.”

Half-wit. That’s what Callum himself had called Alice. Yet she had been harmless enough, and kind. Her eyes had only ever shown a benign serenity, not a shred of anger or dislike. A gentle soul.

“It matters not, Iona. Flora’s dead and that whore’s family are responsible. What can I do? She’s gone.”

“Aye,” Iona replied, “and I pray that she and her sister arrived home safe and well. As for you, young master, I’d urge you not to let your thirst for vengeance lead you to ruin. You must learn the lesson of forgiveness before you venture out into the world as a man. Do not let your bloodlust cloud your judgement. I fear it already hampers your brother’s.”

“Tavish can look after himself.”

“He’s a fine warrior, aye, but I fear that when he leaves for war, he’ll not return.”

* * *

When Elyssia woke, she lay on a mattress, the aroma of fresh straw in her nostrils.

A tapestry hung on the wall opposite, depicting a familiar hunting scene—a deer surrounded by hounds and men on horseback. The detail of the saddle on one of the horses was blurred where the stitching had frayed. She had always intended to mend it as a child.

She was in her old bedchamber.

Ignoring her aching body, she limped to the door and tested the handle, but it was locked. Once more she was a prisoner—in her own home. She could only pray Papa’s treatment of her would be kinder than what she had endured at Glenblane, at his hands.

The image of his face tore through her mind—moss-green eyes full of tenderness and love, turning, at the last, to a burning hatred. In her chamber on the top floor of a turret, her only means of escape was to throw herself out of the window. Were it not for the need to protect Alice and the child inside her, she would end her misery in a heartbeat. She returned to the bed and sank onto the mattress, but sleep eluded her.

The door opened to reveal Papa. Standing in her doorway, hands on hips, he gazed down at her, a look of satisfaction on his face.

“I’ve decided what is to be done with you.”

“Am I to remain here?”

“No. You’ll leave for your new home shortly.”

Her heart leapt in hope. Had Papa relented enough to send her to Richard? A new future stretched ahead—keeping house for her dear brother, a man who would be a loving uncle to her child, though it was a bastard.

Papa’s face distorted into a sneer.

“I have a very accommodating houseguest who is willing to take you, sullied as you are.”

He stepped aside.

“Come forward, my friend. Daughter, stand in the presence of your new protector.”

A man moved out of the shadows. His once handsome face was blurred on one side, the skin puckered as if by fire. He grinned to reveal white, even teeth.

“How delightful to see you again my dear.”

Elyssia’s throat tightened, and she fought for breath as she looked into the eyes of the man who had owned her two years ago.

Edward Morland had returned from the dead to claim his property.